Chapter XXXI

"Am I awake or dreaming?" This was the thought that passed through Basil's mind as he opened his eyes. Two weeks had passed since he had been rescued from death; and for the most of that time he had been unconscious. But certain floating impressions were his, which now, as his eyes travelled round the walls of the room in which he lay, he endeavoured to recall. It was not without difficulty that he succeeded, but after long and determined--if in his weak state such a word may be used--effort, these impressions began to marshal themselves. But just at the moment that memory reasserted its power an interruption occurred, and Basil, bent upon his mental task, closed his eyes, and waited once more for solitude.

An old woman stole softly into the room, and crept with noiseless tread close to his bed. She stooped over him, kissed him tenderly, arranged the bedclothes about him, smoothed his pillow, and kissed him again. What touched his feelings deeply was the exceeding tenderness of these kisses, which could only have been bestowed upon one who was very dear. What meaning lay in this strange tenderness to him who not so long since was forsaken by all, and coming from one whose face was absolutely unfamiliar to him? For with excusable cunning he had partially raised his lids without being observed, and his half-veiled eyes rested upon the woman who was attending him. She was an old woman with grey and white hair, and there were signs of deep suffering on her lined face. She looked like one who had experienced great trouble, but Basil noted also in her countenance an expression of gratitude which relieved the weight of years and care which lay heavy upon her. He allowed his lids to droop, and setting aside awhile the task upon which he was engaged when she entered the room, ransacked his memory for a clue. He could find none, even though his mental efforts sent him wandering weakly among his childhood's days. While thus engaged, with his eyes still closed, he was conscious that another person had entered the room, and the words which passed between them reached his senses.

"Good morning," in the cheerful voice of a man.

"Good morning, doctor."

"Doctor! He was being cared for, then, and friends were by his side. Of this he was assured; he required no further proof than the tender actions of the woman and the soft voice in which she returned the doctor's greeting. But why should these stranger's care for him? for strangers to him they were, though their intentions could not be doubted.

"How is our patient this morning?"

"No worse, I hope, doctor. He has been very, very quiet."

"That is a good sign."

Basil felt the doctor's fingers on his pulse, and then his head was gently raised, and he knew that his temperature was being taken. He betrayed no consciousness of their presence; perhaps the conversation would supply him with the clue for which he was seeking.

"The fever has almost gone; in a few days he will be quite well. Has he not spoken at all?"

"No, doctor."

"Not even in his sleep?"

"No, doctor, not a word has passed his lips."

"All the signs are good. Has he opened his eyes?"

"No, doctor. If he only would! If he would only recognise me! I could die happy, then."

"You must not talk of dying. All that belongs to the past."

"No, doctor," said the woman, with a sigh, "it belongs to the future."

"I stand corrected in my philosophy. But, tush, tush! We must not have you breaking down. I shall insist upon your getting a nurse for our young gentleman here."

"No, doctor, no," in almost a fierce tone, "no one shall nurse my dear boy but myself. Have I waited all these years to let another woman take my place?"

"Be calm. But I warn you that you are overtaxing yourself, and at your time of life it is not safe. You have done your duty; no woman can do more."

"I will not allow anybody else to take my place. It belongs to me; it is my right."

"There, there, don't agitate yourself. I hope our young friend will be grateful for what you have done for him."

"He will be; he always has been; you do not know his nature--the most loving, the tenderest. Can you not see it in his face?"

"It is a good face, and I have taken something more than a doctor's interest in the case. It is, indeed, a mercy that you came across him on the bridge a fortnight ago. Had he fallen into the hands of strangers it is hardly likely he would have pulled through. It was touch and go with him."

"Providence led my steps. I am humbly, humbly grateful."

"You saved him from death--I may tell you plainly now that he is in a fair way of recovery. And how is our other patient?"

"Still the same, doctor. Will you go and see him?"

"You must come with me; he is suspicious of me, as you know, and would order me out of the room if you were not by."

"Can I leave my dear boy with safety?"

"With perfect safety; he will not awake from sleep for a long time yet, and when he does it will not harm him to find himself alone."

"He must not find himself alone--I will not have it, I will not, I will not!"

"Well, well, surely you can take my word. He will sleep for hours; it is nature's restorative."

"Doctor," said the woman, in a tone so solicitous that Basil was deeply moved, "he _will_ recover?"

"He will. Come; I have not much time at my disposal."

He walked to the door, but before she left the room, Basil felt her tender hands about him again, ministering to his ease and comfort. Presently he knew by the closing of the door that he was alone again. Then he applied himself to the task of recalling his impressions. They came to him slowly, and the sequence of events passed through his mind in fair order.

He recalled the dolorous days of hunger and privation, the meeting of the young woman on the bridge, his visit to her house, and the cruel accusation she brought against him. When he struggled against it she had desired him to come into the light, and had said, "You are Newman Chaytor." With this pronouncement and condemnation he left her, and the look of abhorrence the woman's mother had cast upon him lived in his memory as a burning brand. Then followed the days through which he starved and suffered till he was on the bridge looking forward on the river's lights, and waiting for death. He had no remembrance of what subsequently occurred on that night and on many days and nights afterwards. Sounds of voices he had heard, but not the sense of the words that were spoken: except that on one occasion something had reached his senses to the effect that the room in which he lay was unhealthy, and that it would be better if he were removed to more airy quarters. He was dimly conscious that this was done, and that gentle hands had lifted him from his bed, and that he was carried to another house through fresher air which flowed softly over his fevered brow. Had this really been done, or was he deluding himself with fancies? He opened his eyes, and gazed around. The room was large, and there was but little furniture in it, but everything was clean and neat. There was a pleasant paper on the walls, the device being flowers, the colours of which, though subdued, had some healthful brightness in them. On a table near his bed were medicine bottles, a basin with soup jelly in it, and a plate of grapes. The loving care with which he was being nursed was evident whichever way he turned. There was something more than mere kindness, there was heartfelt devotion, in these evidences and in what he had lately heard. The woman to whom he owed this great debt had saved him from death--the doctor had said as much, and Basil did not doubt that it was true. Whatever could have been her motive he inwardly acknowledged that she had rendered him a service it would be hard, if not impossible for him to repay. Saved from death! To what end? That he might live to clear himself from the foul accusation which hung over him, to avenge himself, to punish the guilty, perhaps even yet to save Annette. A debt, indeed, that could never be repaid. Exhausted with thought, he sank into slumber, with a growing hope in his heart that there might yet be some brightness for him in the future.

When he awoke again it was night. Opening his eyes they fell upon the form of the woman who had tended him. She was kneeling by his bed, gazing upon his face. A shaded lamp in the room enabled him to see her clearly.

"Newman!" she said in a low voice of joy, and she half rose and stretched forth her arms.

That hated name! Denial was on his lips, but the voice of joy, the agonized appeal of love expressed in her eyes, arrested his speech. And indeed at that moment there suddenly flashed upon his mind some glimmering of the truth.

"Who speaks?" he asked, awed and stricken by the appeal.

"Your mother, your fond, your loving mother. Oh, my son, don't break my heart by saying you don't know me! Newman, Newman, my beloved boy, kiss me, give me one word of love. I shall die, I shall die, if you turn from me!"

He could not repulse her; he felt that the sentence upon this loving heart was his to pronounce. Scarcely knowing what he did, he held out his hands. She seized and kissed them again and again, then fell upon his neck and pressed him convulsively to her.

"Who are you?" he said softly.

"Your mother, your faithful, faithful mother. Did you not hear me? Have I spoken too soon? O Newman, Newman, give me one kiss, one kind look. My poor heart is breaking!"

"Tell me who I am," said Basil.

"You are our dear, our darling son, whom God in His infinite mercy has sent back to us, to comfort us, to cheer the little time that remains to us."

Her mouth was close to his; her quivering lips pleaded for the kiss for which she yearned. He could not resist her; their lips met; her tears gushed forth.

"Forgive me," he said: "I have been ill so long, and my mind may be wandering still. Is it the truth that I am Newman Chaytor?"

"Yes, my dear, yes, you are the only being left to us on earth, the only link of love we have. If it distresses you to think, if the effort is too painful, rest till the morning; I will watch over you. Heaven has heard my prayers; my darling is restored to me. I can die happy now. The clouds have passed away; there is nothing but sunshine; your future shall be happy; we will make it so. Fortune has smiled upon us. Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful--and just as you have come back to us. But we will not speak of it to-night; we will wait till to-morrow, when you will be stronger."

"No, tell me something more--I am strong enough to listen."

"Oh, my poor boy, you have suffered much, you have had great troubles!"

"Yes, great and bitter troubles. Bring the lamp nearer. Am I changed?"

"Only a little paler than you used to be and a little thinner. There is no other change in you. Your father----"

"My father!"

"He lives, Newman, he lives, but he is very ill, and I can see that the doctor fears for him. But he loves you still. Do not think hardly of him, Newman; he will not be long with us. Say that you forgive him!"

"What have I to forgive?"

"There speaks the noble heart of my darling boy. You can bring peace and comfort to him, as you have brought it to me. You can brighten his last hours. You will do it, will you not, my dear boy?"

"What lies in my power," said Basil slowly, "to repay you for your goodness to me, that I will do."

"I was sure of it, I was sure of it. You will find him changed, Newman; he wanders in his mind sometimes, but you will be gentle with him."

"Yes I will be gentle with him."

"We will forget the past--there shall be nothing in our hearts but love and forgiveness."

"Listen a moment. If anybody came to you and said I am not your son, would you believe him?"

"You ask it to try me, but you little know your mother's heart. If an angel from heaven were to come and say so, I should not believe him; I should know it was an evil spirit that spoke. I was going to speak to you of our good fortune. Shall I go on?"

"Yes, go on."

"It happened only a week before I met you--O, heaven be praised for it!--on the bridge. Do you remember, when everything went wrong with us and we were plunged in poverty, that your father still had some shares in mining companies left, shares that were supposed not to be worth the paper they were printed on? Do you remember it, my dear boy?"

"Well?"

"It is only three weeks ago that a gentleman found out where we were living--we were very, very poor, Newman--and told us that these shares were valuable, were worth a great deal of money. Fortunately your father had not destroyed them, and fortunately, too, when the gentleman called it was on one of your father's sensible days. He found the shares, and some of them have been sold. We are now rich--yes, my dear boy, rich. We should never murmur against heaven's decrees; it was all ordained--that this should happen at the time it did, and that I should meet you a few days afterwards, in time to save you. Newman, my dear, you had not a penny in your pockets."

"I was starving."

"My poor boy, my poor, poor boy! Oh, how cruelly we have treated you!"

"You must not say that. You are the soul of goodness; you have saved me from death, from despair, from shame, from degradation. I have something to live for now. Hope revives. I have an enemy who has conspired to ruin my life. What shall be done to him?"

"He must be punished."

"He shall be."

"The monster! To conspire against my dear lad. If I were not old and weak, I would seek him out myself. He should learn what a mother could do for a beloved son."

"He shall be punished, I say, and his punishment shall come through those who are nearest to him, and should be dearest."

"It sounds hard, Newman, but it is just, it is just."

"I am tired," said Basil, "I can talk no more; I want to sleep."

"Sleep, my dear boy; I will watch by you."

"No, you must seek rest yourself; I insist upon it; it will do me good to know that you are resting after your long labour."

"Are you sure you will not want me?"

"Quite sure; I am gaining strength rapidly; to-morrow I shall be almost well. Go."

"When did I disobey my dear lad?" said Mrs. Chaytor. "When did I disregard his slightest wish? He repays me with love, and I am happy, happy! This is the brightest night of my life, Newman. What have I done that such joy should be mine? It is more than I deserve. Yes, I will go, though I don't want rest--indeed, indeed I do not. I could stop up for weeks nursing my dear lad, and never feel fatigue." The tears rose in Basil's eyes as he gazed upon her worn and wasted face. "Good night, my dear, dear boy. God bless and guard you?"

He could not deny her the kiss for which she mutely pleaded, and she prepared to leave him; but she came back a dozen times to assure herself that he was comfortable, that there was not a crease on his pillow, that the clothes were smoothly laid over him, and to hover about him with soft accents of love. At length he pretended to be asleep, and she crept from the room so softly that he did not hear her footfall.

Being alone now, he could think of what had passed, of the revelation that had been made to him, of the position in which he stood, and how it behoved him to act. The woman believed him to be her son, the idol of her heart, the one supreme treasure which heaven and earth contained for her. In that belief she had rescued him from death, and by so doing had perhaps afforded him the opportunity to redeem his name and honour. To undeceive her would break her heart; of this he had no doubt. How perfect was her love! How tender and beautiful were its evidences! He remembered his own mother, and knew how pure was the love which existed between them; but never till this moment had it been given him to know to what wondrous extent a mother's love could go. That Newman had been a bad son, that he had been profligate and false--of this he was certain; such a nature as Newman's was capable of nought else; but all this was forgotten and forgiven. Nay, instead of entreaties for pardon being expected from him, it was himself that was asked to forgive. Something more than gratitude stirred his heart as he thought of Mrs. Chaytor's goodness, a feeling of pity and affection rose within him, and he bethought himself in what way he could repay her for the great service she had rendered to him.

Had it been Newman, indeed, whom she had rescued from death and dishonour, how would he have acted? Natures do not change, and Newman would have followed the bent of his. He would have brought fresh sorrows upon her head; he would have stripped her of her new fortune and squandered it in dissolute practices? Would it not be a fine revenge to make the end of her life sweet and beautiful by the loving care and gratitude it was in Basil's power to bestow. His heart glowed at the thought. The sterner part of his revenge could still be carried out. He would have means to prosecute his search for Newman and Annette, and it would be the easiest matter to find an excuse for absence, if it were necessary that he should go personally to seek them. Thus two good ends would be attained, one certain in the joy it would bring to a good woman's heart, the other as yet uncertain, inasmuch as the roads which would lead to it were enveloped in darkness.

Yes, he would have means to punish the guilty. But were those means his to use? Could he with justice employ them in the task upon which he was engaged, and which Mrs. Chaytor had saved him to prosecute? This was the question which now obtruded itself.

Why not? Had not Newman Chaytor, by the vilest conduct, by long systematic deceit and treachery, fraudulently obtained possession of his fortune, and was he not now using it for his own selfish pleasures? Could human cunning go further than Newman had done in his vile plot--could human baseness reach a baser depth? No. There would be a strange and inscrutable justice in using the villain's weapons to bring the villain to bay.

There was another consideration: Annette. If in the morning he declared himself to be Basil Whittingham, if he left the loving mother in sorrow and tribulation, and rejected the opportunity which, through no scheming on his part, had presented itself, if he threw himself once more penniless upon the world, what chance had he of finding Annette in time, maybe, to save her from a life of deepest unhappiness? This last consideration induced him to resolve upon his course of action. For the present he would allow matters to go on as they would. He would not undeceive Mrs. Chaytor; she should, for as long or as short a time as circumstances permitted, rest in a delusion which had filled her heart with joy. She should believe that he, Basil, was her son indeed, and he would work and wait for events.

But he would be strictly just, as far as he could. What money he used should be used to one end, and to one end only; unless, indeed (and a strange smile wreathed his lips as this view presented itself) collateral disclosures were revealed to him of Newman Chaytor's home life of villainy and treachery which pleaded for some kind of compensation. Then would he use some of Chaytor's money to repair the wrong. A devious road to justice, but a justifiable one. Having thus determined, sleep descended upon him.